


time of our lives

by mochis



Series: Seasons of Magic [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Fortune Telling, M/M, Night Clubs, Tarot, Witch Hunts, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 03:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17859578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mochis/pseuds/mochis
Summary: As a semi-certified witch hunter and semi-reliable fortune teller, the duo were nearly 75 percent sure there was a Very Dangerous Witch on those very grounds, and per their duty to London and the rest of the world, their job was to take it out.(Or at the very least attempt to.)





	time of our lives

**Author's Note:**

> set in 1985, years before kiku and alfred's story in Season of the Witch, aka when arthur was kind of cool ........ perhaps

Arthur Kirkland always took three things with him whenever he stepped foot outside of the shabby flat he called home: his favorite denim jacket, his father’s battered knuckle duster, and a pair of matches.

The latter served more than one purpose. For now, as he leaned against the chipping, red brick wall to his flat, one of the matches was used to light a cigarette. He wasn’t a fan of the taste, but figured he’d get used to it the more he smoked. Yesterday, he was seventeen and had never touched a stick lest he wanted to lose his hand from a slap on the wrist from his mother. Today, he was eighteen, and the first thing he did that morning was buy a pack of the stuff to try out. 

It took him five cigarettes until he could finish an entire one without coughing or sputtering. 

Arthur watched the puffs melt into the wind, dancing against under the streetlight until they faded into nothing. Despite pouring tar into his lungs, smoking was actually quite pretty. He could get used to seeing the fumes sway to their own rhythm in the dark. 

People took little notice of him as they passed by, not sparing a second glance in the direction of him or the cheap flat behind him. To them, it was just another ratty flat in the middle of London. They either walked by briskly to get home for the evening, or dawdled by in search of the nearest bar or club - both of which were not for a few more blocks. 

But the boy jaywalking across the street towards him was in search for neither. 

Arthur saw him coming and quickly tossed the butt, stamping it out with the tip of his shoe. Glancing towards the boy, he frowned, “You’re late, Francis.”

The boy - tall, lean and with hair that was obviously still stuck in the last decade - only scrunched his nose. “Since when have you smoked?” 

“Since  _ I _ became an adult,” Arthur replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “And older than you.”

The boy - Francis - rolled his eyes. “That’s subjective. At least I won’t be ruining my teeth and lungs with that crap.”

Arthur didn’t reply, instead beginning to walk down the sidewalk with Francis in tow. He had dealt with all sorts of nagging throughout his childhood - his brothers would chide him on his lack of sense, his mother on his manners, his father on the family business - and just when he thought he’d be free of their badgering, he met Francis, who was more than eager to nag about his fashion sense. Or lack thereof, as he so often said.

“Tell me you brought a change of clothes, at least,” Francis said, pinching the denim of Arthur’s jacket between his fingers. “This is practically falling apart. At least get it tailored.” 

“The only thing that should be getting sewn is your mouth.” The blond batted Francis’ hand away, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Just because I can’t pull of whatever it is  _ you _ call fashion doesn’t mean I don’t look good.” 

“We’re going to a  _ club,  _ Art, not some underground pub. At least dress for the occasion.”

“Believe me, this club is the cheapest establishment in the entire city of London. We’d be better off looking normal.”

“Still,” Francis ran a hand through his hair, which stopped just above his shoulders, “You want to look the  _ opposite _ of normal at a club.”

Arthur looked at Francis’s choice of fashion with distaste. The boy had on a black, satin jacket, embroidered with a koi and cherry blossoms - of which he had claimed to get from Japan, a feat that Arthur did not doubt him of - over a white dress shirt tucked into a pair of blue jeans. His hair, fluffy and light with flecks of gold, stopped just above his collarbones. 

Art ran a hand through his own blond, unruly locks. If there was one thing he was truly envious of, it was Francis’ hair. 

“Well, not for the reasons we’re going.” He said, tucking his envy away for the moment.  “The less we stick out, the better. You know that.” 

Francis scoffed, but said nothing more. Just as Arthur had learned to ignore his nagging, Francis had in turn learned to ignore Arthur’s single mindedness. A club was a  _ club,  _ no matter how cheap or rundown it may be - and he had been to his fair share of low-end clubs in europe.

The two walked deeper and deeper into the city, into areas that Francis hadn’t recognized himself. He was somewhat familiar with the dirty streets that Arthur lived on, but as the blond led him through a maze of mucky alleyways and too-narrow streets, he couldn’t help but hesitate following too close behind him. 

Eventually, they reached a short staircase that led them into an underground room, the door enclosed by black bars like a cage. A lock hung from the cage’s entryway. Francis opened his mouth to say something, but Arthur held a hand up to stop him.

“Trust me, Francis, this is the place.” He said, knocking three times through a hole in the bars. “I did my research well enough.”

“I’m not doubting your research skills, I’m doubting this guy’s taste in clubs.” Francis murmured, quiet so as to not offend whoever stood on the other side of the door. “I mean, cages? Really?”

The door opened, a burly man with tattoos crawling up his forearms peeking out. “Yeah?”

“This is the Arena, right?” Arthur said. “The club?”

“Are you two even old enough to be out on the streets at this hour?” The man asked, looking the two up from their shoes to their hair. “I.D.s?”

They quickly presented their issued I.D.s to the bouncer, who kept his look of suspicion and distrust as his eyes scanned each card. With a grunt, he unlocked the caged entrance and let the two in, locking it as they walked through the door and into a wide, open hallway. 

Music pounded through the walls, nearly shaking the walls as the two walked under the tall archways and past more caged entryways. Statues stood on the right side of the long hallway, each a different pose and different person every time - first a bronze woman, a silver man, then a golden  child - but their eyes were the only parts unpainted, remaining as inky pools of black. Francis grimaced, picking up his pace. Arthur hadn’t mentioned that this might be the most unsettling club in London. 

Eventually, the two reached a pair of double doors with rusted knobs. The music thrummed loudest just beyond the doors, quaking the walls floor beneath them. Arthur and Francis shared a glance before Arthur pushed the doors open, flashing lights being the first thing to welcome them into the main club area. 

The dance floor and balconies were packed, practically overflowing with people of all types dancing against each other. Arthur had heard that this building used to be a popular ballroom before it caught on fire - of which no one truly knew the culprit behind said accident - and the elaborate remains decorating the walls and ceiling were evidence of that. Mirrors lined the dance floor, reflecting the light and people dancing. Besides the strobe lights, the only other source of light came from the ornate chandelier hanging from the ceiling, but Arthur’s eyes brushed over the decor to instead focus on the crowds below. 

The crowd was pulsing along to David Bowie being blasted through the speakers, and bursts of neon colors - from headbands, shirts, leg warmers - popped out with every flash of light. Compared to most of the crowd, Arthur looked like the odd one out, with his simple denim jacket plain sneakers.

Francis nodded his head to the music’s beat, a tune from an artist that was much too poppy for Arthur’s taste. He had to shout over the music as they descended the sweeping staircase. “I don’t think we’ll have a problem blending in - everyone and their mother is here.”

“On the main dance floor, maybe,” Arthur shouted, “But we need to go deeper. You do a sweep of the balconies and I’ll look down here.” 

Francis was more than happy to join the throng of people grinding to the beat. He left to find a staircase to the balconies with no protests as Arthur started on his way into the horde of people on the main floor. 

The thing they were looking for was nearby, and both of them felt it. As a semi-certified witch hunter and semi-reliable fortune teller, the duo were nearly 75 percent sure there was a witch on those very grounds, and per their duty to London and the rest of the world, their job was to take it out. 

(Or at the very least attempt to. Most of the time they ended up barely bringing their catches into the Magician’s council, let alone actually  _ killing  _ them.) 

Arthur pushed through the swarm of people, avoiding getting elbowed and nearly punched in the jaw by some girl’s dancing, following the faint trail of magic energy deeper into the crowd. His tracking skills were subpar, at best, but eight times out of ten, they led him to what he wanted, and he hoped to God that this was one of those eight times he was suddenly shoved into someone’s side. He quickly recovered and managed to wriggle free of the crowd, reaching another tall door on the other side of the room. 

Above him, Francis was having no more luck than he was in finding their witch. Granted, he was a bit distracted talking to a red-headed girl with spiked bracelets he had “accidentally” bumped into while dancing, but he only felt a soft hum of magical energy in the air. There was too much noise and too much movement to pinpoint where the energy was coming from; everyone’s energies were mingling and mixing with each other so much that it was hard to tell what was coming from who. It nearly made him dizzy, so he asked the girl where the men’s rooms might be at before setting off in their direction. 

Arthur had stepped through the door and into what looked to be the women’s bathrooms. Lucky for him, there were no girls currently inside, but he wasn’t about to get thrown out before he got what he came for. 

Just as he turned to leave, he was hit with a sudden wave of magic, the trail suddenly alive and pulsing with strength. But it wasn’t leading outside. 

A stall on the very corner of the room was closed, sniffles coming from beyond the locked door. Now, growing up throughout the seventies into the mid-eighties, Arthur knew sniffling in a club either meant one of two things: coke or crying. Given the rattiness of the club and the faded graffiti on the bathroom walls, his best bet was on coke. 

The blond neared the stall, his torn sneakers near silent as he reached for the knuckle duster  tucked into his pocket. The sniffling grew louder, followed by the roll of paper from the dispenser. If tissues were involved, he could rule out drugs, but magic still hung in the air, radiating from the inside of the stall.

Arthur kicked the door with as much strength as he could muster, breaking through the ratty lock easily. The person on the ground - who was indeed just blowing her nose and dabbing at the corners of her eyes with tissues - yelped, scooting up against the wall of the bathroom behind her. 

A part of Arthur was disappointed. He had expected a dark magic user, at the least, not some teenager with mascara running down her cheeks. 

“What the hell, man?” The girl demanded, quickly standing up. He noticed she had an American accent. “In case you can’t read, this is the goddamn girl’s bathroom -”

“You’re a magic user, aren’t you?”

She stiffened, balling the tissue in her hand tighter. “You’re nuts. What are you even talking about?”

“So you are.” he said, taking a step forward. She took a step back, bumping into the wall behind her. “No, it’s okay - I’m not here for you.”

“What do you mean ‘not here for  _ me’? _ Are you some-some witch hunter or something?”

“Well, or something.” He shrugged. “Still in training. But that’s besides the point. I’m not here to kill you, witch,” Arthur stood a bit straighter as he said this, clearly impressing no one but himself. “My partner and I sensed a great deal of dark magic in this club. We’re here to -”

“Oh, gag me with a spoon,” She groaned, wiping her cheeks of mascara with the back of her hand. She tossed the tissue in her hand into the toilet, flushing it before pushing past the blond. “You’re that wannabe witch hunter I’ve heard about. Really doing the Magician’s council a favor.”

She pulled a tube of mascara from the bag strapped to her hip, rubbing some muck from the mirror near the sinks. Arthur frowned as he watched her reapply the makeup to her lashes,  “How do you mean?”

“Everyone knows about you and your family. Your dad and brother were actual help to the council and magic realm, but you?” She capped her mascara, turning to lean against the sinks. “Amateur. You and that fortune teller partner of yours.”

“I’ve been training with my father for years -”

“I guess he didn’t train you enough, blondie. You burst in here looking for some dark magic and found me instead. Sounds like your tracking game is off.”

The magic he had followed was still heavy in the air, but it was all coming from the girl teasing her ebony hair back into place with a comb in front of him. Disappointment sat in his gut, but more than that, indignation flared up inside of him. Who was this two-bit witch to call him an amateur, after all he and his family have done for the magic realm? 

Before she could say more, Arthur stormed out of the bathroom, stepping into the crowd once more. There had to be a source to the magic he was sensing, and if it wasn’t coming from the bathroom, it had to be somewhere just as close. He would find it and bring it in, because if he knew one thing, it was that Arthur Kirkland was anything  _ but _ an amateur. 

Francis was having less luck, having just spent the past thirty minutes trying to calm his nausea enough to focus on the mission in a back stairwell. People passed by him without so much as a second glance, stumbling towards the balconies or back down to the main floor. The trail he had been following was barely there anymore, hardly ticking with any energy anymore, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of his lack of focus or the overwhelming amount of vertigo currently tormenting his stomach. He supposed it was both. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen - he had read their cards just before coming to the club and none of them suggested him puking his guts out. They only pointed them in the direction of the club, with a few fluke cards among the bunch. 

The brunet steadied himself on the banister of the stairwell, trying to even his breathing. Maybe he should have looked over those fluke cards; one of them had to have said something about him coming down with something. Once more, he reached for the trail, trying to pull everyone else’s energies out of the way to focus on the dark, murky colored string he had seen earlier. He was so  _ close, _ he just needed to -

“Hey, you alright?” A voice snapped him out of his focus, and he turned to see an older boy holding a beer bottle in his hand. 

Francis cleared his throat, standing up straighter. “Yes! I’m fine, I just must have had too much to drink. This is my first time to this club, you see…”

The boy laughed, a light sound that eased some of Francis’s anxiety away. “You should be careful. Never know when some creep is watching you.” 

“So, some creep like you?” Francis smiled. 

“Oh, I’m far from it,” the boy said quickly, “In fact, I could be just what you’re looking for.” 

Now, normally, Francis would welcome and even entertain a boy like this - dark haired, bright eyed and somehow gorgeously taller than he was - but when he said that, something felt off. Perhaps it was the way he smiled, sharp toothed and distant, and the way he somehow had gotten closer as they spoke, or the fact that the magic trail he had been chasing was suddenly back and led straight to him. 

Francis swallowed hard, but kept his smile, eyeing the door on the bottom floor that led into the main dance floor. “You just could.”

In a flash, the boy made to swing his bottle at Francis’s head, but he ducked just in time to dash for the stairs, nearly tripping as he bounded down. He pushed the door to the main floor open, tumbling into a group of girls in too-high heels. He didn’t have time to apologize as the boy was hot on his heels, pushing into the same group of girls with a now smashed and extremely pointy beer bottle. He slashed at Francis with speed, nearly nicking him in the cheek had he not leapt into the throng of the crowd on the main floor. 

Arthur heard the screams before he saw his partner pushing through the crowd. The blond held tightly to the weapon wrapped around his knuckles, running to meet Francis as the crowd broke away from the dance floor. 

“Art - he’s right behind me,” Francis said, grabbing the boy’s wrist to pull him out of the crowd. “I don’t know how he figured me out, but -”

“Doesn’t matter, we need to get him away from the rest of the crowd,” Arthur said, eyes scanning the room for an exit. “Is there any other way out of this place besides the front entrance?”

“You know, I didn’t have time to check for exits, I was too busy trying to get away from this jackass with a broken bottle,” Francis quipped, pulling Arthur along with him as they stayed close to the walls. They found that the only two doors led to the bathrooms, and the hallways led to stairways to the balconies. 

Art felt someone else yank him away from Francis, throwing him down onto the ground hard. A boy with raven hair and pale skin stood above him, a sharp edged bottle in one hand and a ball of black flames in the other. The source of the dark magic he and Francis had felt, staring right at him with the hostility of a tiger leering at its prey. 

Arthur had no time to celebrate his findings, however. The boy’s flame grew larger and larger until he threw it down, barely catching the bottom of El’s jeans as he rolled out of the way and back onto his feet. 

“How did you find us?” He demanded, hands tightening around the knuckleduster in his hand.

“Your light magic wasn’t too hard to pick out from the crowd,” the boy replied, another ball of flame forming in his left hand. Smoky, inky tendrils of fire began licking at his arm up to his shoulder. “You two stick out like sore thumbs.”

The witch hunter cursed under his breath, holding up his weapon when the boy slashed at him with the broken bottle. They clashed, bits of glass falling from the bottle as the knife dug into it. Just as he was wondering where the hell his so-called partner wandered off to, the boy broke away from Arthur as Francis tackled him to the ground, the bottle finally knocked from his hand. The black flames burned as he struggled to keep him down, scratching and pulling and punching at the boy underneath him. 

_ That won’t keep him for long,  _ Arthur thought, looking from the main floor to the balcony to the chandelier hanging above them. It was directly overhead, and if it were to come down directly on top of the witch - 

“The chandelier!” He shouted before running off in the direction of the stairwell, leaving Francis to fight on his own. 

Francis glanced above them, and that was all it took for the witch to shove him off with a flurry of inky fire. The fortune teller fell onto his shoulder with a hard  _ thud,  _ barely catching the direction Arthur had run off to. All he heard was “chandelier”, and knowing Arthur, he must have had some plan, so he did what he thought he should do: keep the witch right underneath the chandelier. 

The only thing he regretted was not bringing a weapon - or even magic - to a magic fight. The only things he had were his limited close combat and dodging skills, so he went for the latter as the witch came at him again, hands flaring and sparks flying. 

“You know, I’m not a fan of dancing dirty.” He said, nodding towards the boy’s hands. 

The boy grinned wolfishly. “Come closer and I’ll change your mind.”

Francis barely dove out of the way in time, tumbling towards the ground with little time to get back up as the boy placed the heel of his shoe on Francis’ throat, pressing down. 

That chandelier was sounding like a fantastic idea right about now. 

Arthur wasn’t watching the skirmish downstairs with the rest of the crowds on the balcony, too occupied with trying to reach the ledge. He forced his way through the thick sea of people, all watching Francis and the witch’s fiery dance with interest and concern. Shouts of, “are they for real?” and “is this part of the club?” trickled throughout the crowd, but Arthur didn’t have the time or patience to even explain what was going on to them. 

The ledge wasn’t too far off from the chandelier, but the drop from either was all the same. He had one chance. 

Taking a step back, Arthur took a deep breath before rising onto the ledge and pushing off of the balcony, arms outstretched towards one of the curved candelabras of the chandelier. His fingers brushed through the crystals before gripping the chipped branch tightly, now dangling along with the rest of the chandelier. He didn’t have time to congratulate himself on somehow surviving a jump that wide; he swung a leg up to begin climbing towards the base of the decor, going straight for its support. 

Below him, Francis had managed to get the witch away from his face and throat. He had him pinned to the ground by his wrists, gritting his teeth through the searing heat of the fire in his hands. Arthur reached the base of the chandelier and got to work on slicing through the thick rope keeping it tied to the ceiling, half wondering why it was even tied using a simple  _ rope  _ and half panicking over the witch slow roasting his partner. Despite the dull blade, his knuckle duster came through and in with a sudden  _ snap  _ he and the chandelier were falling. 

Francis glanced up with wide eyes before leaping out of the way, covering his face with his arms as glass shards flew. Just as Arthur planned, the chandelier landed directly on top of the witch, black flames licking at it before slowly dying out. Both Francis and Arthur stared; they had never been able to successfully kill a witch before. 

The witch hunter stepped off of the chandelier and back onto the dance floor, legs buckling under him. Francis quickly helped him back up, looping one of his arms over his shoulders. 

“Weren’t you the one who said we shouldn’t stick out so much?” He asked, panting. 

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head. “Shut the hell up and take me home, Francis, the cops are probably on their way.”

As the two made for the front entrance of the club and the rest of the crowd began swarming around the shattered chandelier, a pair of eyes followed them. The witch from the bathroom leaned against the banister of one of the balconies, lips pursed. 

The doors to the dance floor burst open, flashes of red and blue mixing with the strobe lights. She stepped back and disappeared into the crowd. 

**Author's Note:**

> i worked on this and some other stuff last semester for a creative writing course but with my own set of characters, but recently i've been changing stuff up with that story and this isn't really relevant to the new plot anymore. i went back and changed some parts to better match arthur and francis' characters in the first witchy fic and decided to at least post this bit :p


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